The cabin was dimly lit, the shadows playing tricks in the corners as the group had settled back into the cramped space. The silence between them was heavy, a tension that had been simmering since the ambush, now thick enough to choke on.
Sofia was the last one to enter, she stood near the door, her face set in a mask of barely contained fury. She glanced at Jonathan, Nikolaj, and Ming, who had taken seats around the kitchen table, each of them lost in their own thoughts as sorted the ammunition they had looted from the ambush site and making their bags for the next part of the journey. But Sofia’s eyes were focused, burning with a fire that Przemek could feel from across the room.
Sofia’s gaze flicked over them, and without warning, she snapped. “Out,” she commanded, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. The suddenness of it made everyone flinch.
Jonathan started to speak, “But—”
Before he could finish, Sofia’s voice cut through the air, more forceful this time, “I said, out! Now!”
Jonathan froze, his eyes widening with a mix of confusion and fear. Nikolaj didn’t need any more prompting. He reached over and grabbed Jonathan by the shoulder, pulling him up with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. Ming was already on her feet, moving toward the door as if the heat of Sofia’s anger was physically pushing her out.
They filed out quickly, the door creaking shut behind them, leaving Sofia and Przemek alone in the thick, stifling silence.
Sofia didn’t waste a second. She stepped closer, her voice low and trembling with barely restrained anger. “What happened back there, Przemek?” Her words were sharp, direct, cutting through the suffocating silence between them. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Przemek met her gaze, trying to find the right words, but Sofia’s expression only hardened. “You saw Matvey. You saw what he was ready to do,” she continued, her tone cold and accusing, as if she was daring him to deny it.
“Sofia—” Przemek began, his voice strained, but she cut him off, her voice rising just enough to convey the intensity of what she was feeling.
“You didn’t stop him,” she said, the disappointment in her voice sharper than any anger. “You let him cross a line, and we all felt it. I felt it.”
Przemek swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling over him like a lead blanket. He looked away, his mind racing for an explanation, an excuse, anything to bridge the widening gap between them. But nothing came.
The silence between them stretched, filled with an unspoken weight that neither could fully articulate. Sofia’s gaze never wavered from Przemek, her eyes reflecting a tumult of emotions that words seemed too inadequate to express. The room felt smaller, more oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in, amplifying the shared burden they both carried.
Sofia sank onto her mattress, her shoulders slumping as she buried her face in her hands. The gesture spoke volumes, a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. She didn't need to say anything for Przemek to understand that the emotional toll had become too much to bear alone.
Przemek standing a few feet away, his mind a swirl of thoughts and regrets. He felt the weight of Sofia’s despair and the heavy silence that wrapped around them. Without a word, he moved closer, his footsteps muffled on the cold floor.
He sat down beside her, close but not intrusive, respecting the fragile boundary that separated them. For a moment, he just sat there, silent, letting the shared space become a refuge from the chaos outside.
Slowly, Sofia’s hands fell away from her face, her fingers still trembling slightly. She glanced sideways at Przemek, her expression softening just a touch. There was something in his presence, a quiet understanding that made the silence between them less oppressive. It wasn’t about solving their problems or finding immediate solutions; it was about the comfort of knowing someone was there, sharing in the weight of their shared experience.
Przemek, sensing the shift, allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t a gesture of agreement or acceptance but a simple acknowledgment of the moment—a recognition that they were both navigating the same storm, and that sometimes, just being there was enough. Sofia knew deep down that Matvey had had his mind set, and that neither her nor Przemek could have changed his mind once his weapon was pointed at his own cousin.
Przemek felt the gentle pressure of her head against him and, instinctively, reached out to grasp her hand. His fingers closed around hers, a small, reassuring gesture amid the chaos and uncertainty. It wasn’t about words or explanations; it was about the comfort of connection, the silent assurance that they weren’t alone.
Przemek felt the gentle rise and fall of Sofia’s breath against his shoulder. As he held her hand, he noticed a few stray strands of hair falling across her face, partially obscuring the soft features he’d come to know amidst the chaos.
With a tenderness that belied the harshness of their situation, Przemek shifted slightly. His free hand reached up, his movements slow and deliberate. He brushed the hair from her face with a gentle touch, his fingers lingering for a brief moment on her cheek. The gesture was careful, almost reverent, as if he were afraid to disrupt the fragile peace between them.
The softness of his touch was a contrast to the rough world outside, a brief escape from the harsh realities they faced. As he tucked the hair behind her ear, his fingers traced a delicate path along her skin, an unspoken promise of care and presence. The intimacy of the moment was subtle but profound, a quiet reassurance that they were there for each other, no matter how dark the world outside seemed.
“We better talk to the kids instead of doing something we’ll regret.” Sofia said quietly in a way that could be interpreted two ways.
Przemek simply looked her softly in the eyes as he smiled.
“Yeah”.
Przemek scanned the room, his gaze steady as he addressed the group. “If any of you have reservations about this, speak up now. We need to know where everyone stands. If you don’t want to partake it’s in your right and no one here will think less of you.”
He turned to Jonathan, who was staring intently at the scar on his face reflected in the surface of his tea—a grim reminder of their past encounters, the so-called 'goodbye gift' from Denmark. Jonathan shrugged slightly, his voice carrying a note of resignation.
“I mean,” he said, his tone measured, “the prize is worth the game.”
"We were promised what? 200 kilos of flour, 3,000 rounds of ammunition, and whatever we wanted to keep from Oksjo?" Ming said, her tone determined. "It's definitely worth it. I'm not saying we should go in and shoot on sight, but a lot of people there deserve what's coming." She added, her voice carrying a hint of resolve.
Sofia looked at Nikolaj.
"Like they said," Nikolaj began.
"That won't work," Przemek interrupted.
Nikolaj sat up straight, shaking off his slouch.
"I shot first, months ago. I had other cards to play that day, but I chose to start shooting at that checkpoint. This is on me. I need to see it through." Nikolaj answered.
"I still don't know if I want to stay here in case my parents show up. I need to think it over tomorrow. But I can't sleep easy knowing those guys are just a few kilometers away." He added.
The others looked at him with a mix of empathy and concern, their expressions softening in the dim light.
Przemek sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You don't have to decide right now. We're all in this together, whatever you choose."
The guard in the mirador was dispatched with ruthless efficiency. Even though they had doubled the watch after their convoy had been found dead and robbed, it wasn’t enough to stop Kristianstad and his small band of mercenaries. The man on the makeshift mirador crumpled silently, an arrow lodged deep in his torso—a precise shot delivered by a Swedish Olympic archer who had found refuge in Kristianstad.
As the archer’s victim slumped, Przemek, much to Sofia’s dismay, crept toward the stake wall with deliberate caution. Behind him, Peter and Amir followed, hefting a ladder between them. Their movements were slow and calculated, their eyes scanning for any sign of danger. Both men were clad in high end military-grade equipment and body armour, their rifles customized and as deadly as Nikolaj’s or Jonathan’s. As Sven’s right-hand men, Przemek didn’t expect anything less. Amir set up the ladder to the right heigh as the two other covered him by looking up the stake wall. They had maybe half an hour left of darkness before the sun rose. Enough time to break in and open the gates. Maybe clear a few houses before the sun rose and gave enough sunlight for the less experienced fighters to enter and join the frey.
The ladder was swiftly set up, its metal rungs clanging softly against the wall. Amir slung his rifle onto his back and drew his pistol, his movements precise and tense. He began climbing, each step echoing his rising anxiety. At the top, he exhaled in relief upon finding a makeshift platform. His eyes quickly adjusted, and he spotted a few meters away a sleeping teenager, clutching an assault rifle in his grip, completely unaware.
As Przemek and Peter joined him, their footsteps were hushed and deliberate. Amir advanced toward the sleeping boy with a steely resolve, aware of the razor-thin line between success and disaster. He wasn’t looking to cause irreversible harm; he knew that knocking someone out cold, as depicted in movies, was a fantasy at best.
With his rifle trained on the slumbering teenager, Amir signaled Peter to bring the duct tape. They had brought three rolls, specifically for situations like this. Przemek took his position, his eyes scanning the village below, providing cover as Amir and Peter prepared to move.
“The rifle,” Amir whispered urgently. Peter nodded and carefully let his rifle fall to the ground. He seized the boy’s weapon, prying it from his grip, while Amir swiftly covered the boy's mouth with his hand.
The boy stirred suddenly, his eyes fluttering open to find Amir looming over him. Panic flashed across his face as he tried to move, but Amir’s grip was firm.
“Stay quiet,” Amir hissed, pressing the barrel of his pistol against the boy’s temple. The cold metal against his skin froze him in place. “If you make a sound, I’ll shoot.”
The boy’s eyes widened with fear, and he nodded, his breathing rapid and shallow. His hand gripped the duct tape that Peter handed over, trembling slightly.
Przemek, still vigilant, kept his gaze fixed on the village below, every muscle tense. Peter stood close, ready to assist, his own weapon slung and ready for action if needed.
Amir released his hold on the boy’s mouth but kept the gun firmly trained on him. “Tape him up quickly,” he whispered to Peter.
The boy complied, moving with shaky hands as he wrapped the duct tape around his wrists and ankles, the adhesive scraping against his skin. His eyes darted nervously between the trio, clearly aware of the gravity of his situation. The tension was palpable, each second stretching out as they worked swiftly and silently.
Once the boy was secured, the trio descended the stairs with excruciating care, every step a potential giveaway. Their breaths were shallow, hearts pounding in their chests as they moved silently through the shadows.
At the bottom of the stairs, a man staggered into view, barely conscious. His eyes were half-closed, and he rubbed them groggily as he made his way towards them. “I’m supposed to take over from Adam,” he mumbled, his voice thick and heavy with sleep.
Peter’s eyes widened in alarm, realizing the man was heading straight for them. Acting swiftly, he stepped into the man's path. Before the man could react, Peter’s arm shot out, locking around his neck in a tight, precise carotid choke. The man’s eyes shot open in sudden panic, but the pressure was unyielding.
Peter tightened his grip, his muscles straining as he applied the chokehold with practiced precision. The man’s struggles grew weaker, his hands clawing at Peter’s arm in a futile attempt to break free. His breathing became ragged, then faltered as his face flushed red. The panic in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a glassy, unfocused stare.
The seconds dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity as the man’s resistance dwindled. Finally, his body went limp, his eyes rolling back as he lost consciousness. Peter carefully eased him to the ground, his breathing heavy but controlled.
Amir and Przemek moved cautiously ahead, their rifles poised and fingers twitching near the triggers, scanning for any sign of anyone else following behind. Peter worked quickly, wrapping duct tape around the restrained man with urgent, practiced motions.
Peter straightened, his pulse racing as he approached the wooden gate. The thick, heavy log that served as its lock seemed to resist his efforts, but with a final grunt of effort, he wrestled it free. The gate creaked open, a sound that felt deafening in the tense silence.
His heart pounded as he fumbled for his Petzl light. With a sharp breath, he switched on the red beam and cast it out into the dark distance. The low beam cut through the blackness like a blood-red warning. He flicked the light on and off in the predetermined pattern—three quick flashes.
Three red flashes cut through the darkness from a line of bushes, sharp and urgent. Peter’s heart skipped as ten, then twenty silhouettes surged forward, sprinting toward the gate with a relentless, determined energy. Amidst the blur of motion, Peter’s eyes locked onto a familiar figure—Jonathan, Przemek’s friend, was leading the charge.
Jonathan, burdened with a heavy machine gun and ammunition belt that seemed to gleam with the dawn's first light, moved with an almost unnerving speed. His silhouette cut through the early morning haze, his heavy steps pounding the ground as if propelled by sheer willpower. The sunlight glinted off his ammunition belt, casting fleeting, dangerous flashes that mirrored the urgency of their situation.
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Peter moved swiftly through the gate, his senses attuned to every sound and shadow. He veered to the side of the central road, leading through the village and toward the looming presence of the central manor. He set down his bipod with a practiced, almost automatic precision, and lowered himself behind his machine gun. His breath fogged up his ballistic glasses.
Ahead, Nikolaj and five other volunteers had taken the left street, their mission to clear every house up to the manor. Their movements were methodical, each step calculated to ensure nothing was overlooked. Przemek, Amir, and Peter had been assigned the right side of the street, their task equally relentless.
The larger group had a different role—to contain and capture anyone they encountered. They were to drag their captives to the gate in the village entrance and hold them there, ensuring they wouldn’t interfere with their operation.
Not even an hour later, despite how slow and meticulously they cleared every house, they had already breached the central manor. The alarm had set 15 minutes earlier as they exchanged fire with two men leaving the manor.
They knew there were five armed men in the manor, excluding the king and his closest “lieutenants”.
They were no match for them. Peter had sustained an injury clearing the manor, one of the “lieutenants” had hit him in his body armour, Amir had quickly dispatched of him.
Everyone after that gave up, the sight of the fighters from Kristianstad from the windows scared them. But the mob of the people they ruled yelling and shouting for them terrified them more. The fighters from Kristianstad had not managed to control the crowd that wanted the king’s head. They had also been dumbstruck when people from the village pleaded to be allowed to pick up arms and help them.
The villagers were out for blood, and they made it clear they wanted the heads of their former rulers on spikes—figuratively, if not literally. What started as a desperate defense inside the manor quickly crumbled as the men realized they were cornered with no way out. Their fate was sealed, not just by the fighters from Kristianstad but by the very people they had oppressed.
Sofia, Sven, Nikolaj and a few men from Kristianstad struggled to keep the crowd in check. They had to shoot in the air to keep them away from the manor. They were obvious to the danger they still faced.
Somehow, Sven managed to calm them down. He was speaking to a few people in the crowd. The crowd dispersed a few meters back as the sound of gunfire inside of the manor intensified.
The Swedish manor, once a symbol of refined elegance, now bore the marks of necessity and survival. Its grand ballroom, where crystal chandeliers once cast a warm glow over lavish gatherings, had been transformed into a makeshift storage area. The polished wooden floors, once meant for dancing, were now lined with sacks of flour stacked high against the walls. Crates of medicine and supplies occupied the corners, their labels hastily scrawled, while the long, elegant windows were partially covered to keep prying eyes at bay. The room, once alive with music and laughter, now rang with the deafening crack of gunfire. Przemek, Nikolaj, and Amir fired in rapid bursts across the room, aiming at the door where someone had just emptied a pistol in their direction. The air was thick with dust and flour, hanging like a ghostly cloud in the aftermath of the shootout.
“You’re going to die, idiot! Just give up!” Przemek shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.
From behind the door, a voice called out, tense and desperate. “Can I trust you not to shoot me on sight? You can have everything here, just let us go!”
Przemek glanced at Amir, who gave him a curt nod. The unspoken agreement between them was clear.
“Yeah, just walk out with your hands in the air. Leave any weapons behind!” Przemek barked back in Swedish, his tone sharp and unforgiving.
“Okay, give us a second,” the voice replied, strained with fear.
“Hurry the fuck up!” Przemek yelled, his patience wearing thin as the murmurs of conversation floated from the other side of the door.
Jonathan, moving with calculated precision, crept into the ballroom, his machine gun poised and ready on top of a stack of flour nearly as tall as he was. His eyes never left the door.
Finally, the door creaked open. Eight men emerged one by one, their faces pale and drawn. They wore a haphazard mix of clothes—some dressed in utilitarian outfits meant to mimic soldiers, while others, clearly caught off guard by the gunfire, stumbled out in pajamas and track suits.
Their hands were raised high, trembling slightly as they faced the barrels of the guns aimed at them.
“Face the fucking wall!” Amir shouted, they complied and worried what would happen.
“Go restrain them, Jonathan anything happen you empty your machine gun on all of them!” Przemek shouted, loud enough for the men to hear him.
“Anyone else in that room?” Amir shouted as he grabbed the arms of the first guy and started ductaping them making sure he couldn’t budge.
“No one!” one of the voices shouted.
“If that’s a lie I’ll use you for target practice!” Przemek yelled before entering the room with Nikolaj.
Nikolaj and Przemek approached the office door with a practiced caution, their steps almost silent on the hardwood floor. The door creaked as Przemek nudged it open, the sound a sharp contrast to the tension in the air. They moved into the room, rifles raised, eyes scanning every inch of the space.
The office was a stark clash of elegance and decay. Classical architecture dominated the room—high ceilings adorned with intricate molding, tall windows draped in heavy, dust-covered curtains, and a grand wooden desk that had seen better days. But the room’s once stately appearance was marred by the signs of indulgence and neglect. Empty liquor bottles were scattered haphazardly on the desk and floor, some tipped over with remnants of amber liquid pooling on the surface.
Przemek’s nose wrinkled at the stale stench of alcohol that hung in the air. His gaze shifted to the clutter on the desk—porn magazines, their glossy covers a jarring intrusion into the otherwise refined setting. They were strewn carelessly, some pages crumpled as if they had been hastily shoved aside.
Nikolaj moved with deliberate precision, his rifle trained on every shadowed corner as he swept the room. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the liquor bottles, evidence of the careless indulgence of the men they were hunting. He kicked a bottle out of his way, the glass skittering across the floor with a sharp clink that echoed through the quiet space.
Przemek moved toward the large mahogany desk, crouching slightly as he peeked around its side, half-expecting someone to be hiding beneath it. His instincts proved correct. There, curled up and trembling, was a young man, no older than 25. His pale face was slick with sweat, his eyes wide with terror. He was dressed in a pair of silk pajamas that clung to his body, the expensive fabric starkly out of place amidst the chaos of the room.
This was no ordinary man. The silk pajamas, the delicate features, and the unmistakable aura of fear told Przemek everything he needed to know. This was the "king" they had been hunting—a man who had ruled over the village with an iron fist, now reduced to a cowering figure under the very desk he once likely used to dictate commands.
His hands were clutched around his knees, pulling them tight to his chest as if trying to make himself as small as possible. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, and his eyes darted frantically between Przemek and Nikolaj, searching for any sign of mercy in their cold, hardened faces.
“Stand the fuck up!” Przemek shouted, the man was crying, he didn’t answer. Przemek kicked him with his boots as if to wake him up.
The young man whimpered as Przemek and Nikolaj each grabbed one of his legs and yanked him out from under the desk. He clawed at the polished wood in a futile attempt to slow his inevitable fate, his fingers slipping against the smooth surface. Panic flared in his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the men dragging him into the open.
Nikolaj quickly pulled out a roll of duct tape and secured the young man's hands with brutal efficiency, wrapping the tape tightly around his wrists before circling it around his mouth to muffle any protests.
“You guys are bad liars, holy shit!” Nikolaj shouted as they hauled the terrified man out of the office and back toward the ballroom. His voice was laced with contempt.
In the ballroom, the atmosphere had shifted. More men had joined the group, and Sven now stood with them, his presence commanding and cold. As they dragged the young man into the room, all eyes turned toward him, the realization sinking in that the king had been found.
Sven walked over to the line of men pressed against the wall, his expression as unreadable as ever. He glanced briefly at the young man, now trembling on the floor, before addressing Amir. “These two here are going to identify them for us,” Sven said, pointing towards the couple behind him. His voice void of any emotion, as if discussing a routine task. “There’s apparently a basement that needs to be checked.” He said to Amir.
An hour later, Nikolaj was dragging one of their prisoners toward the courtyard. The man was hooded and his hands were tightly bound with duct tape. Despite his futile attempts to resist, Nikolaj’s strength was overwhelming. His arm under the man’s shoulder. With a sharp shove, he slammed the prisoner against the door, the man’s head making contact with the marble pillar with a dull, sickening thud. Nikolaj gripped him firmly, his expression grim as he subdued the prisoner’s struggles.
Sofia sat on the manor steps, her gaze distant and troubled. The blaring music from the loudspeakers drowned out her thoughts, the raucous beats a harsh backdrop to the scene unfolding before her. Nikolaj’s footsteps left a grim trail of bloodstains on the marble floor, evidence of the brutal work they had done in the basement. The stench from the basement still clung to everyone who had been inside, a lingering reminder of the horror that had taken place.
Half an hour earlier, the basement had been cleared. The prisoners—or what was left of them—had been sent to the kitchen, both for feeding and to keep them out of sight of the crowd outside. The last thing they needed was a riot sparked by the sight of their family members seeing what had become of them.
“WATCHU WATCHU WATCHUWANT!” Jonathan belted out the lyrics of the blaring music as he sauntered out, his hand carrying his rifle cassualy and five cartons of cigarettes balanced in his other hand and under his shoulder. His voice carried across the courtyard .
Peter, across the courtyard and stripped to the waist as medics looked at the bruises on his chest. “Don’t let Sven see you with that!” he shouted; his voice strained but laced with concern.
Jonathan smirked and waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, you worry about your boo boos, crippled boy!” he called back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Both men laughed.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Jonathan tossed one of the cigarette boxes toward Peter. It sailed through the air, landing with a soft thud at Peter’s feet. The laughter between them was brief but genuine.
“Hey, if I let you do this, you better clean my machine gun afterwards,” Jonathan said with a casual smirk as he walked past the man facing the wall. Amir behind the machine gun didn't respond, his tension palpable even from a distance. The gravity of the situation was clearly weighing heavily on him.
Jonathan tossed the cartons of cigarettes into the back of the jeep with a practiced motion, the clatter of the boxes echoing through the courtyard. As he did, Nikolaj moved his captive against the wall. With a cold, methodical precision, he shoved the man against it. Nikolaj’s gaze was hidden behind his ballistic sunglasses, his expression a stony mix of indifference and hate.
“You stay here!” Nikolaj barked, his voice harsh and commanding, before turning on his heel and heading back inside. More prisoners, each hooded and trembling, were being guided toward the wall, their faces obscured, their fate uncertain.
Sven, sitting beside Sofia on the steps of the manor, surveyed the scene with a detached interest. He glanced at her, waiting for her reaction. The grim efficiency of the operation contrasted starkly with the personal stakes involved.
“These ones,” Sven said, indicating the new arrivals with a nod, “it will be quick. The king, on the other hand, we promised the people he was theirs.”
Sofia studied Sven’s impassive face as he spoke, her own emotions a turbulent mix of apprehension and resolve.
“You don’t approve?” Sven asked, his voice betraying no hint of personal sentiment as he awaited her response.
“You don’t need my approval,” Sofia said, her voice as cold as the marble steps she sat on. Her gaze was steely, betraying no hint of doubt or sympathy. She knew the brutal decisions being made were not hers to question.
“They forced our hand. We either move to the other side of the world or we deal with them here,” Sofia continued, her tone unyielding. “I saw the basement. All of them deserve way worse.” Her words were a stark admission of the harsh reality they faced, acknowledging the depth of the violence and depravity that had prompted such extreme measures.
Sven’s expression remained unreadable, his mask of stoicism unshaken by her blunt assessment. He understood the necessity of their actions, even if the moral cost weighed heavily on those involved.
About five men were lined up in front of the machine gun, all standing with hoods obscuring their faces. The tension was palpable. Some of the men were visibly shaking, their sobs muffled and despairing, while others stood in stoic silence, as if they had accepted their fate.
Sofia stood nearby, her gaze fixed on the grim tableau. “I just hope whoever you used to identify all of those can be trusted,” she said, her voice laced with concern.
Sven, his demeanor as impassive as ever, responded without looking away from the scene. “Some of them we will let go,” he said. “Like the one we caught in the manor and that boy at the gate. They didn’t have a choice, and before yesterday, they weren’t trusted with a fork.”
His words were cold, but they carried a note of pragmatic realism. The men who had been spared were seen as less culpable, their involvement forced by circumstances rather than by choice. The distinction was meant to ease the moral burden of their actions, even if it did little to change the harsh reality of the situation unfolding before them. Having lost 40 men in yesterday’s ambush, the king had pressed allot of people into forced service.
Amir pressed the trigger and swung the machine gun from left to right, the weapon’s deafening roar cutting through the air. The five men fell one by one, their bodies slumping to the ground as Amir unleashed another burst of gunfire, ensuring none of them were left moving.
As the echoes of gunfire faded, Ming near the entrance, was busy counting stacks of money they had found inside of bags. Piles of Swedish Krona and Euros were heaped around her. She jumped slightly as Amir, made his way to one of the men struggling on the gravel. He took out his pistol and finished him off with a final, precise shot from his pistol. Her heart raced, but she quickly refocused on the money.
Despite everyone’s knowledge that the bills were essentially worthless in their current situation, Ming couldn’t help but count them. Having lived all her life in absolute poverty, the sight of so much currency was irresistible. She grabbed a stack of 100 euro bills and stuffed them into her plate carrier, which she had just found and Nikolaj had helped her strap on. The extra protection it provided was a small comfort, even if it also added considerable weight.
The AK5C rifle she had also found yesterday was a step up from her old shotgun, but the additional firepower was worth the burden. The rifle felt solid in her hands.
“Ming, can you help me out?” Przemek called as he walked by.
Ming quickly followed him inside. They emerged a moment later, both straining under the weight of a big box. Inside was a small solar panel about the size of a dining table, a practical find for their future needs. Ming’s hoodie sleeves were rolled up, revealing a few scars on her right arm.
"In the midnight hour, she cries more, more, more!” Jonathan belted out, his voice echoing the rock song blaring from the loudspeakers. He was in high spirits, despite the grim task at hand. With one arm around the prisoner’s shoulders, he dragged him outside, Nikolaj supporting him from the other side as the prisoner’s feet stumbled and dragged along the ground.
Jonathan sang the next line with exaggerated flair before Nikolaj, his patience wearing thin, finally spoke up. “Alright, Jonathan, can you please shut up?” he asked, his tone edged with irritation but still remarkably restrained given the circumstances.
Jonathan grinned, letting out one final, playful whoop before falling silent. Together, they dragged the prisoner to the wall where the other bodies lay. The man was set down with a heavy thud, joining the line of lifeless forms.
As they worked, more armed men emerged from the building, hauling the last four prisoners with them. Each prisoner was dragged while their struggles grew weaker as they were pulled along. Some were roughly pulled by the arms, others by the collar of their clothing, their feet scraping against the ground.
The new arrivals were dropped in front of the wall, forming a grim new row beside the others. The stark contrast between the lively blaring of the rock song and the silent, huddled prisoners added to the surreal and oppressive atmosphere.
One prisoner panicked as he stumbled, his foot catching on one of the legs of the lifeless bodies strewn before him. His hooded face betrayed his fear; he knew what was coming. The tension was palpable as the machine gun was raised.
Just as Amir prepared to fire, Sofia’s voice cut through the chaos. “Stop!” she yelled, pointing sharply at Amir.
Jonathan, who was sharing a bottle of whiskey with Peter and Ming, turned his head, curiosity piqued by the interruption. Peter, caught mid-sip, raised an eyebrow, glancing from Sofia to the scene unfolding before them.
“Hey Sven, I want to see you do it!” Sofia called out with a somber grin, her eyes fixed on Sven. Her tone was a strange mix of challenge and resolve.
Sven, now fully attentive, exchanged a look with Przemek, who had also turned to see what was happening. Both men’s expressions were a mix of curiosity and cautious expectation.
Amir, his finger still hovering over the trigger, looked to Sofia for further instructions, his stance tense as he waited for the order.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Nikolaj uttered, breaking the silence before being hushed by Przemek.
Sven’s gaze was unwavering as he took in the scene, his expression steely and resolute. Without a word, he moved across the court yard towards Amir, who stepped aside with a nod, his face a mask of restrained tension.
Sven approached the line of prisoners with deliberate, measured steps. The hooded men flinched as he came closer, their fear palpable even though their faces were hidden.
Stopping in front of the line, Sven’s eyes seemed to shoot daggers toward Sofia. His demeanour was cold, his focus sharp. With practiced precision, he took out a pistol from the pocket of his jacket.
Ming grabbed the bottle of Whiskey from Jonathan’s hand as they watched with a mix of curiosity and grim interest. Sofia's somber grin remained fixed as she observed, her challenge now taking shape in the form of Sven's resolute actions.
Sven moved towards the first man. “Ple-“ The hooded man in a dark suit was cut off by Sven’s pistol firing a round through his skull. His expression unchanging, he moved toward the next one and pulled the trigger. The prisoners fell, their bodies collapsing in quick succession. As he approached the second to last man, he desperately attempted to run off. Knocking the woman on his left down as he sprinted blindly. Sven lifted his pistol with one hand fired a shot at the back of his chest.
The woman, blind and dazed struggled to stand up with her hands bound behind her before her head met the barrel of Sven’s pistol.
Sofia’s somber grin softened into a thoughtful expression, her eyes meeting Sven’s. The unspoken understanding between them was clear: in the harsh reality they faced, everyone had to get their hands dirty.